You Gonna Eat That?

Americans are so strange about food. We pretend to diet while sneaking Hallowe'en candy from our kids and we say we're full when we're not. In St. Louis, we order toasted ravioli because the meat filled pasta pillow isn't enough. No, we gotta fry them bad boys to boot.

I come from a family of eaters. We are not the slacks and sweater people who gather together, shake hands over pre-dinner cocktails and then dine politely, sort. No sir, my family is all asses and elbows at the serving line, wearing sweatpants for more expansion room. We don't take the activity lightly. Belching? Yup. Napping immediately after the meal, splayed out on the floor? Absolutely. How about picking at the communal leftovers like fleeced scavenger birds? You betcha.

I've known women who "forget to eat." They flutter their thin fingers with a harried expression and do de-clare that there was just so much going on that eating completely slipped their minds. Now, I've forgotten where I parked my car and I can't consistently remember my social security number or my current spouse's name. One time, I left 50 total percent of my children at the soccer field after a game. But I have never, ever forgotten to eat.

So, don't be embarrassed to do what we must to survive. We have to eat. The fact that what we eat is buttery, sugary and salty is just a bonus.

Viva la Blockbuster Rewards

Generally speaking, I don't go to the movie theatre. My reasons are not the usual, it's too expensive-I can't get a babysitter, sort. I do, however, have reasons. Good ones.

The Restroom- Ewww...theatre restrooms are disgusting. Some day I'm going to hang out in one and take a count of how many butts land on one seat in an hour. No can do. And what good is a movie without the depth-chart sized Diet Coke?

Children- No, not mine. I don't want to sit in the dark, engrossed in a story and hear a child talking, whining, crying or otherwise making it's presence known in any way. Worse yet, is when the movie is adult in nature and people bring their kids. I spend the whole evening being pissed about poor parenting instead of watching the show.

Girls- On the few occasions I've attended a movie with my significant other, he spends the majority of our "date" watching the teenage girls in tight jeans go by. He is so blatant and offensive that my night is invariably ruined. I do somewhat enjoy fantasizing about poisoning his butterlike popcorn topping, so maybe that one is a wash.

Seating- I don't enjoy sitting in one place for an hour and a half or more. It makes me hostile. Seriously.

Did I see XYZ movie? Nope, but I'll certainly give you a review when I can rent the DVD, watch it in my family room alone and use the toilet I just cleaned.

Ode to the Chickpea

Years ago, while doing menu development for the first cafe, James and I came to an impasse. It happens infrequently but this one was a doozie.

Hunkered down after hours in our then place of employment, he stated "We gotta have hummus." I'm pretty certain my brief response contained the F word and a question mark. James explained that hummus was a middle eastern dip of olive oil, salt, mashed garbanzo beans, garlic, lemon juice and ground sesame seed paste. "You must be joking!" was my reply, "Nobody eats that shit but you." He lobbied fiercely and at the end of the night I caved in with one concession. We agreed that hummus would go on the menu for two weeks and if it was a poor mover, we'd take it off and I would win full bragging rights.

The night before opening, he demonstrated what's known in the business as "mad skills" in the hummus making department. All the while, I provided back up by making snotty comments about the texture (and it's similarity to vomit) and contorting my face as much as possible to show my disdain for the whole affair. James wore the smug expression of a sure winner.

On day four of operations, he called me out to the front of the house and had me take a look around. Dag! It was like a hummus eating competition! Folks were wolfing it down with purpose and rapture. I asked for a side of hummus myself, you know, to eat with my crow.

Almost two years later, it remains our second most popular item. Right behind falafel.

A Man of Letters

I've just returned from a 1700 mile journey with my father. Over the weekend, we drove a trailer packed with supplies to the Salvation Army in Biloxi, Mississippi. I never, ever want to hear Elvis, Waylon Jennings, Jimmy Buffet or Willie Nelson again.
Long after dark on Saturday night, as we made our way south on I-65, we got lost to a place called Purvis, MS. (It isn't difficult to get lost as there aren't a lot of road signs remaining down there.) There weren't many places open but we found a little, white restaurant with "The Catfish Shack" painted across the front. A couple of folks were out front, hosing off mats on the dirt parking lot when we approached.

The brief stop for directions turned out to be one of the highlights of the trip. The owner was an older, retired man with no shortage of gab. He talked about the area, he talked about the hurricane, he talked about New Orleans. He asked if we ever had Mississippi catfish, and having been informed that neither of us had eaten catfish from anywhere, promptly had some fried up and served with sweet tea. I offered to pay, but he waved me off and smiled. "I'm Southern," was his explanation. We all had a good ol' visit outside on a picnic table under the stars.

So, if you're ever in Mississippi, please go see Mr. W.J. Dees at the Catfish Shack.

Remember Amityville Horror?

I've been a princess, a ghost and a football player, among countless others. My Halloween costumes were always homemade and came from the crap in someone's closet. If I was particularly planful my mom and I would traipse to the Goodwill for costume ideas and components.

While discussing Halloween costumes with the girls the other day, my youngest informed me that this year, she wants to be "a slut." Sweet Mother Of Gawd, my head whipped around so fast I thought I'd need a personal injury attorney. Yup, she confirmed her first statement. "I want to be a slut."

After much sputtering (on my part), graphic explaining (also me) and pursuant embarrassment (that was her bit), we managed to rule out the mini-skirt, tube top and high heels as a costume choice. I countered with the idea of being a nun. Not just for Halloween, mind you.